□ THE EYRIE □
We've often remarked in this department that writers are a queer lot; and the heap of mail on our desk this morning persuades us to say so again. Here we have further proof that the person who is devoid of even the faintest gleam of literary talent is usually obsessed with the notion that he should be placed among the world's immortals, while the man who really possesses the divine fire, whose innate gift is indisputable, often wonders if he can write at all.
Consider, for instance, this alleged manuscript from a gentleman who lives somewhere west of the Mississippi. It is written with a soft lead pencil on both sides of assorted sheets of paper, which apparently have been used to clean the cook stove; and the man doesn't live who can make any sense of it. In a word, it's a mess.
And now consider the note that accompanies it. This note crisply informs us that the "story" is for sale for $1,800 cash, payable by "return mail," that it must immediately be copyrighted in the "author's" name, and that foreign rights, book rights, photoplay rights and all other rights must be sold for the "author's" benefit.
We don't know whether this self-styled "author" is kidding us or not; but we rather think he isn't. We incline to the belief that he belongs in that crowd of odd misfits, mentioned above.
Then, by way of contrast—and as additional evidence for our argument—glance at this letter from Seabury Quinn. You who have read him in WEIRD TALES know how Quinn can write. He's a "born writer" if one ever lived. And we've dozens of letters from delighted readers, enthusiastically singing his praise. We heartily subscribe to these glowing encomiums. And yet Quinn himself sometimes wonders if his fiction is worth our while!
"As long as you and your readers want 'em," he says in this note to us, "I can send you these stories, and I'll see to it that the criticisms (deserved, I admit) of the rejected stories can't be brought against my future contributions. . . . When you get a chance let me know how these stories strike you, and when you want more. I'm all set to give you as many more as you may require, but, being naturally a lazy son-of-a-gun, I don't want to spoil a lot of good white paper unless I know you like to see the manuscripts."
You may be sure that we've written Quinn that we'd like to see all the manuscripts he writes; and, judging by what we hear from our readers, his admirers will never tire of him.
Now let us see what our readers are saying about us this morning. Here's a choice bit from Walter Thomas Lee, Jr., of Denver:
"Dear Mr. Baird: This letter serves a manifest double purpose: it provides needed exercise for a restless typewriter; and, pre-eminently, it is a fortuitous spillway for a dam of long-pent up—three or four moons—enthusiasm in regard to the ultimate magazine: WEIRD TALES. Yet, even so, the deplorable inadequacy of our revered English is never quite so obvious as in an instance of this sort. Only the pithy superlatives in the language of some super-civilized, Wells-conceived planet could interpret my feeling (I do not hyperbolize) toward your infinitely soul-satisfying departure from mechanical, plotless literature.
"Especially delectable was the recent Austin Hall masterpiece: 'The People of the Comet.' I frankly admit that his type of story has a greater appeal to me than your others; they are so delightfully improbable. . . . and convincing! I should like to predict that Hall's intriguing theory of ions and cohesion ultimately will be examined. . . . but I digress. . . .
"I was particularly interested in 'The Dead Man's Tale' (though I do not inordinately admire spiritualism) because I am so fortunate as to reside in the same city with its author, Willard E. Hawkins. 'The Moon Terror' was excellent, as was 'Penelope,' though the latter—as Mr. Lovecraft says—is not highly astronomical.
"But no previous issue can possibly compare with your latest, that of October. I must confess to a certain radical hirsute elevation on reading 'The Hairy Monster.' That ten gallons of blood. . ! 'Devil Manor' was pleasingly original and strikingly bizarre. And, by the wayside, Farnsworth Wright is somewhat of a humorist: he is quite enjoyable. I thought no one could ever approach Lemon's 'Autobiography of a Blue Ghost' in the field of weird humor, but 'An Adventure in the Fourth Dimension'—though not surpassing it—equals it in potential mirth. H. P. Lovecraft manipulates an inimitable pen: he is extraordinary, as is 'Dagon.'
"Herein, I have tried to give you an idea of my opinion of WEIRD TALES; but, as should be evident, I have read so selfishly of the best stories, my opinion necessarily is based on those stories. Yet all in all, there is no magazine in print which parallels it, in policy or quality. And in view of the fact that I (hasten the day I) am an incipient weird tale writer, it is not unusual that I should enjoy your admirably bloodful, indispensable magazine. No es verdad?
"And, anon, let us have more of Austin Hall. . . . thank you."
H. P. Lovecraft's uncanny stories are making a decided hit. it seems. We continue to get letters praising "Dagon," and we wonder what the reaction will be on his "Picture in the House," which, in our opinion, is a much betterpiece of work. Clement Wood of Hastings-on-Hudson says that "'Dagon' was sustained and excellent to the end," while P. J. Campbell of Ridgefarm, Illinois, declares the same story "is a little masterpiece of its kind." And others have written in similar vein. After reading them, we feel impelled to show you this letter from the author:
"My Dear Baird: I was exceedingly
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